Pansy's Story
by Talia Fisher
Summary: A fic from Pansy Parkinson's POV. Hermione is going out with Draco, and she's out for revenge...


Pansy's Story

There she is, entangled in his arms. She had special subtle blonde highlights put in her hair tonight, and curled it loosely into tumbling waves. Hermione Granger. What a bitch. She stole the boy, the only boy, I've ever loved. And he loves her back. 

I'm watching Draco, stroking her hair, admiring her dress. She looks fantastic, in a simple, elegant gown of understated black. Her brown eyes sparkle with love, and he returns the look. Draco is handsome in a matching black dinner jacket and immaculately cut trousers and starched white shirt. His silvery blonde tendrils frame his milk white face. Even his lips are palest creamy-pink, and they curl seductively into a smile. I can see that they're locked in a world of their own, far, far away from the party that surges unknowingly around them. They're locked in a transparent bubble of adoration, and rainbow light encircles them, running through them, illuminating. 

She is too beautiful by half. I pick at my bottle blonde hair, slightly dry at the ends. It covers my back like a cloak, covering me; the only protection I have. It takes all my willpower to stay seated at the edge of the room, sipping the foul-tasting lager in its engraved cut glass bottle. The beautiful amber liquid is deceptive. Its only promise is that of escapism. I take a huge gulp and ignore the burning as it slips unseen down my raw throat. 

My dress is too low cut and it is too short, revealing acres of chunky thighs. Who am I trying to kid? I'm a fake, with clothes to prove my nickname, and the only persona I have. I'm a slut. My breasts push against the slashed neckline. I thought I looked so sexy. I'm nothing but a whore. 

I pointlessly tug my dress down in an attempt to cover myself up. The gold material scratches at my skin, and I feel terribly hot. They're dancing now. Slowly. He's spinning her around. People are laughing and cheering them on. I yank at the black necklace which is choking me. 

That Weasley kid just walked past. What a sad case. Her carrot-coloured freakish hair is tied up in a blue satin bow, and the ends trail onto her shoulders, flapping pathetically as she walks. Has she no fashion sense? Her dress is reminiscent of the sort that the saddest five-year-olds wear. It's matching pastel blue, with a full skirt, and a just-visible white lace petticoat. I call her over, and push a bottle of lager into her unwilling hands. Maybe that will lighten her up a little. 

My attentions wander back to the adorable couple. This calls for more alcohol. I order a neat vodka, and knock it back in one, grimacing slightly at the taste. To take my mind off the matter at hand, I stare hard at Ron Weasley and Dean Thomas, who are chatting quietly in one corner. It's so pathetically obvious. Everybody who is anybody knows that they are gay. Not that it's a waste. Catch me pulling either… both total losers… Little poufs. No, they're welcome to their bizarre persuasions.

I run a hand through my hair, and know that my black roots are on show. Who gives a damn. No-one is worth impressing here tonight. Well, maybe one. But he has the angel child. She practically has a halo attached to the back of her head. Fashioned from silver molting tinsel. And a pair of cardboard wings. I imagine a pair of red horns sprouting from my head, and a long, lithe red tail. I grin evilly, so twisted of sorts that it is almost a grimace. Everyone knows that good overcomes evil. Well, there's a first time for everything. Draco Malfoy is mine, and I will stop at nothing to fulfil my life's purpose. 

Later, I see Draco slip away, kissing Hermione on the cheek as a brief good-bye gift. How nauseating. He's probably just going to the toilet. She can live without him. I reach into my matching lurid gold handbag, and pull out a small plastic packet. Sauntering up to the cherubim from above, I flash her my most winning smile. I see her falter, and try to look pleased to see me. Nonchalantly, I start up conversation over the most mundane things. She is even more of a loser than I thought. A right Daddy's girl. She tells me about how her latest Arithmancy project, and how she relishes a challenge. She asks me what my favourite subject is. Pass the sick-bag. 

To pass the time, I pull out a cigarette, and waft the smoke in her face, which causes her to emit a series of perfect, adorable coughs. I apologize, of course. Wouldn't want her to think I have no manners…

Now she's talking about how much she loves Draco, and she could not believe she hated him for all these years… I sigh, in a dear friend style, nod at the right moments, and add encouraging noises. I offer to buy her a drink. She smiles, and dimples, and thanks me very much, but says she isn't very thirsty. I insist. She agrees - finally, and thanks me profusely. Just then, Draco comes back into the room. He gives me a look, but turns away, and is soon in conversation with a Slytherin boy on the Quidditch team. I sense Hermione wants me to go, so she can resume her chaste kissing with lover boy, but of course, is too polite to say a word. I ask what drink she wants, and she says a lemonade. Well, it's her funeral. I order myself another vodka - this time with orange, to make myself look a little less reckless. While I'm at the bar, she sits petulantly, her knees neatly together, her black velvet shawl neatly slung across the back of her cocktail dress, hooked between her elbows. I see her give Draco a tiny wave. He blows a kiss back. That sickening sight gives me strength, and quick as a flash, I have done it. I bring her the lemonade, and sit gulping at my vodka whilst she sips it. I bid my farewell, and go to resume my original position, watching the rest of the party go by, from a vantage point in the window seat. 

She dances a lot, and gets very hot and sweaty. I notice her drinking a lot of water, and start to feel a little anxious. Perhaps it was not such a good idea…

Too late, before I can slip away unseen, she suddenly, with no warning, falls to the ground, and starts twitching and shaking. Her eyes are rolled back in her head, and she's making disturbing noises. Hermione chokes out a scream, and suddenly everyone is silent, watching her writhe. They form a circle around her, unknowing, wondering desperately what to do. Draco is on his knees. He is distraught, calling her name, over and over. She does not hear him. 

I finger the empty packet between my fingers, feeling the last few grains of powder trapped in the lining, as I watch Hermione die. How was I to know? It was only a bit of fun.


End file.
